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So, according to my Stats, someone found my blog by typing in ‘Emilia Clarke smut’.

Don’t worry, it doesn’t tell me who you are, reader who apparently does exist. And I don’t judge you. If she asked, I’d take off my clothes and lie at her feet.

…and now Daniel’s snickering at me. Seedy bastard. I hope you’re happy, whoever you are. Anyway, there’s no smut here, but if you send me some, I might post it. If you’re lucky.

Anyway, I know how much you non existent readers are looking forward to reading about what happened after my head was cut off, but right now, I need to snap back to Reality for a bit. I had started writing this on Sunday, but I haven’t been able to post it till now, so let’s travel back in timeeeeeeee.

So today, I went out with my friends in Fremantle. I’m not going to get into detail about that today, but I need to mention something important. Kaya and I switched, and Kaya ended up having a panic attack on the train.

It wasn’t a panic attack.

Oh yeah it was. But like I said, we’re not going into that today. We’re talking about modelling today.

Slut.

Oi!

Well, you are.

I beg your pardon?!

I do not approve of what you did.

I’m sorry, but I did nothing violating my moral codes, or that of this century, for your information.

Oh really?

“I heard someone say slut.”

Oh great now Daniel’s here. “What do you want Daniel?” I ask.

“To know why Kaya called you a slut.”

“That would be because of today’s photoshoot. You were there remember?”

“Oh yes…”

And? What did you think of it? Is that sort of conduct appropriate for a young lady?

“Kaya, if Cat Madigan had done anything inappropriate, I would’ve been there to watch it unfold.”

“Great.” I roll my eyes. “So on one hand, I have a hypocritical priss who’s done much much worse than what I’ve done-”

I have not.

“Oh don’t you lie to me, I’ve seen your memories, remember?” I can feel Kaya’s unease in the back of my head.

“What’s this now?” Daniel actually looks confused.

“And on the other, there is a perverted man child slash stalker who watches every seedy detail of my life,” I finish.

So you admit it. What you did was wrong.

“…the subject matter was sketchy, but there was nothing wrong with what I did!”

Tell that to your mother.

“I will. Once I work up the courage to tell her I did a photoshoot without her permission. And when she’s finally in a good mood.”

That may take a while.

“You may want to explain to your nonexistent readers what the hell is going on, Cat,” Daniel tells me.

“Alright.” Now that my imaginary friends, or rather, my imaginary stalker and someone who rents out my body occasionally (in a completely different way to what it sounds like) have broken the third wall, I think I should provide some context.

Yesterday was a photoshoot. It was different from the ones I have done before; partially because this shoot was more artistic, more classical.

And also because I didn’t tell mum about it.

I know, I know, I fucked up. The thing is, I could already anticipate what my mother was going to say. And that is along the lines of “You’ve done enough modelling for the last couple of weeks, every weekend you’re going out, you’re losing your sense of family (which is rich, considering how we haven’t been a family since since I was so young that those memories are now a blur) and don’t you have homework to do?”

So here’s the story behind how I got involved in this shoot. There is a organisation that organises monthly photoshoots, and I decided to get involved in an Angels and Demons photoshoot. Don’t bother asking which I’m going to be, I gave up on heaven a long time ago, and anyone can guess who I most identify with.

Anyway, the group also had a page for casting calls, so models, photographers and makeup artists could work together in other stuff before the big monthly shoot. So I put my hand up for a last minute shoot, as one of the models had dropped out, and the photographer needed another model.

And I got it.

Well done, Cat Madigan. Kaya claps slowly in my head.

Well, I didn’t think I’d actually get it! What was the chance that he would’ve wanted to work with me over some thinner, less psychotic model?

Just continue the story. So you didn’t tell your mother.

No, I didn’t. I kept forgetting to bring it up.

In other words, you’re a hen.

Wait, what?

…Not the correct phrase?

“Try chicken, Kaya.”

“We are getting off track, you two,” I inform them.

What about the subject matter?

What of it?

For fucks sake, I don’t give a crap that you didn’t tell your mother. I care that you looked like a whore.

“She did not!” Daniel yells.

“CAN YOU BOTH GO AWAY SO I CAN CONTINUE WRITING THIS BEFORE IT LEAVES MY HEAD?”

Whatever you say. So the photoshoot was to be based around a Manet painting, which you can see clearly below.

Just for the record, there was absolutely no nudity involved, I promise. We wore bathers, and it was a one piece, and it was not slutty, AND THERE WAS NO NUDITY.

You’re still a slut.

Shut up, you hypocritical bitch. So there was a message behind the painting, which the photographer explained to me. The painting, which was done in the 1800s, caused a scandal in the community. Not because it involved naked ladies, but because of who the naked ladies were.

“Who were they?”

“Nobody Daniel. Look, in those times, there were two common representations of women in paintings. They were usually represented as one of two extremes; the Whore, or the Virgin. And this painting depicted them as neither whore or virgin, just ordinary women. Their lack of importance is symbolised by the men who don’t look at them.”

“Maybe they’re gay.”

“Maybe they were. But either way, they were just ordinary women, and it was shown in the painting. And it lead many people to question the things that they painted, and how they painted them.”

IT’S NOT THAT PART THAT I’M CONCERNED ABOUT, CAT MADIGAN.

Concerned is putting it very lightly.

Dearest Cat, would you care to explain to your nonexistent readers what happened after the shoot?

Fine… So after the main group shot, we decided to take some shots for our portfolios. And the photographer decided it would be cool for one of the male actors to have a shoot with a lady.

“…you? A lady?”

“I have a vagina. I believe that makes me a lady.”

“Still, they could’ve used the other male model instead. You couldn’t really tell the difference.”

“Except for the beard, Daniel,” I insert.

“True, true.”

And the photos weren’t that bad, Kaya. It’s just that one or two people might consider them…provocative.

That’s one way of putting it.

Look, I was lying next to him, draped in a sheet. But I was wearing my bathers underneath! It just looked like I wasn’t wearing anything.

“When do we get to see this photo?”

“You, you sick pervert, can die waiting to see that photo.”

“Don’t show me it, and I’ll find worse.”

“…what are you implying?”

“Let me put it this way. You’ll never be able to change in peace again.”

“…one look. That’s it.”

“That’s all I need. Now you can continue.”

So you see? It wasn’t that bad.

Perhaps not. But I can think of a number of people who would not approve. Your school for one.

But they wouldn’t see the photo unless they went onto my Model Mayhem account. Which they wouldn’t, because they have no business going on there.

There’ll be people calling you a slut, not just me.

Look, I don’t see the photo that way. It’s more artistic than slutty, and besides, I can use the variety in my portfolio. It’s good to show people I’m not just a cutesy makeup model.

You can be the slut too.

“I prefer to call it ‘The Femme Fatale’ look.”

“Thankyou Daniel. That’s the first time I approve of something you’ve said this conversation.”

One last thing, your mother. What would she say upon seeing that photo?

Back to Cat from the future now. I told mum. She’s fine with it. She doesn’t know exactly what went on in the shoot, but in don’t need to go into that much detail until she actually sees the photos. I haven’t got them yet, but I don’t plan to show them much to people. And especially not Uncle Slenderman.

I have found another part about myself that I hate. Yes, it turns out that it is possible. After discovering millions of flaws in myself, I thought there couldn’t have been anymore.

I have a feeling that whenever I say things like ‘What could be worse than this,’ or ‘I’ve hit rock bottom’, my brain seems to determine this as a challenge.

THIS IS NOT A GAME BRAIN! I DON’T WANT TO FEEL EVEN MORE INSECURE ABOUT MYSELF, I’M A NUTJOB ALREADY!!

So I’ve figured out something else about myself.

I develop attachments to the simplest, stupidest things.

About a few months ago, I nearly had a panic attack when I was deciding to change my radio from 92.9 to 99.3, more commonly known as Triple J. You see, my radio is difficult to change stations on, and if I chose to change my radio station, it would probably stay on that station for the rest of that radio’s existence. And I was freaking out about it. And it was a radio station!

And for all you imaginary 92.9 fans who are asking, I got sick of Nicki Minaj and songs with horrible meanings. Yes, I’m looking at you Miley Cyrus, and you Robin Thicke.

I also tend to be frightened when something happens to Daniel. Yes, the same Daniel who teases and picks on me whenever he has the chance. Because I’ve also gotten attached to him. He’s a friend, and he protects me.

And I shouldn’t get attached to him because he’s a part of my head which isn’t real, and my doctors are splitting hairs over getting rid of him.

I can imagine what you’re thinking, nonexistent reader. Why am I only just noticing this behaviour of mine?

I believe it happened because of a painting I had done. Well, it brought about the realisation.

A few months ago, we were painting abstract self portraits in Art, and mine actually won a prize, much to my astonishment. I was a better drawer than a painter, and the fact that I had won something for that painting was surprising in itself.

So today, I found out from my art teacher that someone wanted to buy my painting, and to think about if I wanted to sell it.

As I am incapable of expressing emotion properly, my only reaction was, “Oh, wow, okay.” On the inside, I felt everything spinning out of whack.

I was carrying my canvas outside when I saw Daniel waiting for me. He was pumped. “That,” he told me, “is wicked. Someone wanted to buy your work, that’s incredible!”

I just smiled tiredly.

Then Daniel noticed I hadn’t said anything. “Are you going to sell it?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted.

There was a story behind the painting. It probably wouldn’t make much sense without seeing it, but I’m a bit reluctant about letting it out on the Internet, especially when I’m considering selling it. But I’ll describe it as best as I can.

Anyway.

I am not in a good state of mind. In the slightest. Nor was I when I was painting my picture. I don’t know if I ever will be again, (yes, that’s right, I used to be sane). But I can’t let people know that, otherwise I can’t be anything more than the ‘mental girl’. So I appear calm on the outside. I had used green in the background, and for my eyes, and I painted my hair a pretty blue. Calm colours, nice colours, they remind me of a meadow by a lake. I’ve also painted my clothing red, not bright red, just a muted, pretty colour. It doesn’t get much attention.

My face on the other hand, is bright yellow and orange, like a flame. I always feel like I’m burning up on the inside, the pain is bright and vibrant, and it hurts.

It’s not a good feeling.

I ask Daniel now. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Somewhat. But do you?”

I frown, and shake my head at his logic. “I feel like it’s too emotional,” I said slowly. “And too personal. I mean, it means something to me, about myself, and it’s not a very nice part about myself. It’s like giving away a secret, and for someone else to have that secret?”

“What do you know about secrets?”

I make a face. “Enough to know that it’s a bitch.”

He chuckles. “Silly Cat. A person only has a secret if they understand it completely. This person won’t know the truth unless you give it to them.”

“Then I’m selling a lie.”

He cracks up. “You are an idiot.”

“I believe that’s been established.”

He sighs. “What are you upset about? You could sell a painting, what’s wrong with that?”

I shake my head. “It just feels almost like I’m telling them about what’s really happening in my head.”

“Cat Louise Madigan,” Daniel says. “Will you remember this painting for the rest of your life?”

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I could feel differently tomorrow about it, and I might want to sell the painting. On the other hand, what if I sell it and I’ll always want it?”

Daniel lies back. “Ask your teacher more about it,” he says. “Don’t give it away practically for free, if it’s so precious. How much would you sell a secret?”

I actually don’t know. Here I am, writing up our conversation for millions of nonexistent readers to see, and I’m worrying about an implied message in a painting. “You’re right, I am an idiot,” I said.